


IHTFP

by Dorsail



Category: Half-Life
Genre: Friendship, Gen, Gnome Chompski, Humor, Meet-Cute, One Shot, Pranks and Practical Jokes, Pre Half-Life 1, Pre-Canon, black mesa
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-05
Updated: 2020-06-05
Packaged: 2021-03-03 20:35:27
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,922
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24561694
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dorsail/pseuds/Dorsail
Summary: It is Dr. Gordon Freeman’s first week of employment at Black Mesa. Between the pompous scientists and daunting multi-million dollar projects, a pang of loneliness rattles in his chest. But it’s nothing that a healthy dose of nostalgia can’t fix, involving a certain old college professor…(Written for Lambda Core: A Half-Life Charity Zine)
Relationships: Barney Calhoun & Gordon Freeman, Gordon Freeman & Isaac Kleiner
Comments: 14
Kudos: 78





	IHTFP

At around 1 AM, the heist began on the grassy lawn of a suburban Boston home. Three undergrads— all physicists— and their hostage stowed away on an old beat up car. They bore down the relatively deserted highway, passing by the dark expanse of the Franklin Zoo and over the glassy Charles river. The vehicle slipped into a student residence parking lot, and the mission continued on foot. 

The campus of MIT was dead quiet, the lit sidewalks empty— and empty they remained as the three young men stuck to the shadows beneath the century-old hornbeam trees. There was a pause at a padlocked entrance, one man fiddling with the lock while the others stood guard. Once their entry was secured, it was a simple matter to enter the maintenance tunnels. The two other necessary tools found their way into the group’s hands in due time: a ladder from a supply closet and a chair secured from a classroom. Together they scuttled onwards in the dark basement of the Infinite Corridor, their flashlights casting angular shadows that wavered across the piped ceilings. A turn down the corner just there and a stairwell was revealed by their torches. The ascent proved harsher than usual, each of the three having to carry their respective loads of chair, ladder, and unwilling captive. 

They paused to catch their breaths on the roof, the moon shining down through sheets of clouds and toning the concrete a ghostly gray. From then on was a climb up the ladder to the base of the Great Dome. It was difficult crawling up the slope with props in hand, but with some perseverance the three students finally made it to the summit. Across the river, Boston’s skyscrapers sparkled brightly, mirrored in the dark water. In that instant, it was just them in the world. No finals or deadlines. No student loans or heaps and heaps differential equations. The moment passed, and with silent acknowledgement they went on to finish their work. Carefully, the chair was perched on the apex of the dome, facing that mesmerizing skyline. The tallest student, with thick frames and the scratchy beginnings of a goatee, placed their stolen bounty in the middle of the seat, like a throne at the top of the world.

Several hours later, Dr. Issac Kleiner began the final week of his teaching career— on time as always. While it was certainly a melancholy period, it wasn’t without purpose. Afterall, it was not a permanent retirement (he was still a bit too young for that). Just a man hanging up one of his many hats. The prospect of running experiments in the field of quantum mechanics, a subject that had stagnated for years, in none other than one of the most advanced and well-funded research facilities in the country was too much of a temptation. In fact, he had been personally approached for recruitment. It came as some surprise, even if an ample amount of Black Mesa associates had previously sat in on his lectures on supraquantum structures. All things considered, not much was public about the secretive organization in the first place— besides, of course, the amount of defense contracts it harbored above all other private laboratories. 

Kleiner accepted the new position without hesitation, but with a heavy heart. While he was not exactly the most popular professor on campus, having been hired more so for his nigh-unparalleled knowledge of physics than for his cut-and-dry instruction, his earnestness and kindness had made more than a few acquaintances of his pupils. Perhaps the saddest aspect of his parting would be missing out on his current students’ endeavor to persevere through graduate school.

A gathering of students in Killian Court blocked his path and interrupted his rumination. Kleiner craned his head, following their gazes up to the Great Dome across the green lawn. There was something up there, indeed, but it was far too distant to parse out anything beyond a tiny red triangle, vibrant against the blue morning sky.

“My, my. Another hack?” Kleiner exclaimed, adjusting his large frames as he approached the collective.

“Oh hey, Professor Kleiner,” one of the students greeted, pulling a set of binoculars from his face. “It looks like just a small one. Seems like an inside joke.”

The student shrugged and passed off the binoculars to the professor. Kleiner fumbled with the focus dial, several twists needed in order to compensate for his legal blindness, only to see his favorite garden gnome perched on a chair at the top of the Great Dome. 

* * *

Perhaps it was some cruel twist of fate that his old professor's birthday just happened to coincide with his first week of employment; a bookend to hijinks of yesteryear. The average man would not dream of risking a high-stakes, competitive position on a simple practical joke. Dr. Gordon Freeman was not an average man. 

If academic research had one thing (certainly not money), it was the casual and social demeanor lifted straight out of a college dorm. It was a trade off at sorts at Black Mesa, where awkward silence stretched as long as the multi-million dollar laser array. The man had never been exactly talkative, but it was jarring to go from being surrounded by other young grad students to a gaggle of white-haired men old enough to be his father. It was not enough to be able to follow every discussion on lagrangian equations or zero point energy. In the end, this escapade was just as much a gift for himself as it was to Kleiner. 

Gordon rode the tram down to Sector C with a coffee in one hand and a knapsack in the other. The other scientists, donning matching lab coats and flamboyant ties, eyed the pack but said nothing. That was security’s business anyway. 

The guard stationed at the landing of Sector C peered in the bag, his eyebrows raising as he rifled through the fabric. He paused his search, squinting up at the young scientist. “What, you going camping later?”

Gordon simply nodded.

The guard huffed and shook his head. “Whatever you say, man.”

The physicist smiled, finished his coffee, and slung the backpack over his shoulder as he entered the security lock for Sector C. He waved hello to the regulars in the lobby, and made a shot at the nearest trash can with his empty cup. It toppled at the rim before sinking into the basket. A good omen. With that, he went on to another day at work, waiting for the cover of dark that was required for his expertise.

Security was just one of the many facades in Black Mesa, Gordon had discovered. A show of force, rather than strict adherence. An ounce of prevention for a pound of cure. Rather than rely on the off-chance a guard was distracted while overlooking surveillance footage, Gordon had spent yesterday’s lunch break strolling through the hallways and making note of every camera and the dead space between them. If anything, there were too many openings to choose from. 

The first phase initiated after his shift ended. He found an excuse to stay for dinner: volunteer repair on one of the burnt-out accelerators. Tinkering with machinery was always a sure fire way to make the clock tick down in no time at all.

“Nine o’clock? Already?” Dr. Vance wiped the sweat from his brow, replacing it with machine oil. “Folks, I think we’ll have to continue working on this tomorrow.”

On to phase two.

Gordon returned to the locker room alone, and rummaged through his smuggled gear for his change of clothes. A black longsleeve and grey sweatpants would prove to be better activewear than a lab coat and tie. At the very bottom of the backpack, tucked in the roll of his sleeping bag, Gordon pulled out his latest internet purchase. The ceramic gnome was a bit smaller than Kleiner’s old one, but still had the same red cap, blue shirt, and jolly expression. Unfortunately, his pathway required a light load in order to squeeze through; he would have to carry only the essentials. Pocketing a screwdriver, miniature flashlight, and bobby pin, Gordon set on with his sleeping bag slung across his back and garden gnome in his arms.

His chosen point of entry was a vent just down the hallway from the locker room. He wanted to remain out of sight as much as possible. In preparation, he had mapped a route in his head to the section of labs bordered by a congregation of pipes. It was only common sense that a maintenance tunnel lied just beyond the concrete wall.

Once he carefully replaced the grating, Gordon began his crawl through the ventilation shaft, having just barely enough clearance to shuffle forward. The passing, fleeting views of the dark labs were more than enough to keep him oriented. No danger of getting lost. This was his element, in the same way a mountain climber knew a mountain, or a spelunker knew a cave. The secret insides of a structure, laid out in a plan— if executed hastily and cheaply. No aesthetics to appeal to the eye, just design driven by function; like nature. 

The stretch of vents he crawled through ended in a large room with an intake fan, the hot air blowing up and out to the surface. To his right, a door stood firm in the side of the enclosure. Arching back to avoid the fan, he made his way to the door handle and jiggled it. Unlocked. His rudimentary lockpick would remain untouched for the night. Probably for the better; it was not his expertise. Navigation was his forte, what he made a name for himself back at MIT and in the dilapidated canneries on the outskirts of Seattle. There wasn’t a nook or cranny he could not find a way into. That, and his ability to get the heck out of dodge. Perhaps in another life he would have made an excellent running back; another life where he was not a lanky man fond of intellectual pursuits.

Lo and behold, on the other side of the door, the maintenance tunnel lay just where he had suspected. It was dark, but his eyes had adjusted enough in the vents for him to see amply. Besides that, faint red emergency lights dotted the lining of the walls. They must have been nuclear powered, or solar by now, fed by miles and miles of electrical wiring. They cast the tunnel in a crimson hue, the array of overhanging pipes looking not unlike the veins of a giant beast. He took in the strange beauty, and returned to his task. Northwest. That was where the Sector C offices were from the test labs. He tightened his grip on the gnome in his arms and pressed on into the tantalizing unknown.

Despite the sense of familiarity and nostalgia, Black Mesa’s maintenance tunnels were an entire league up from the century-old school basements and rundown factories Gordon had frequented in his youth. Where in the past there were plaster walls or rotten planks, here there was thick and unpainted concrete straight from the sentiments of the Cold War. The clearance of the tunnel itself was massive, the pipes numerous and foreboding in their sheer bulk. Clearly this was the expense and power needed to bombard materials with exotic matter, looming overhead like an immense thundercloud brimming with potential energy.

“Hey!”

The shout turned Gordon’s blood to ice and snapped him from his reverie. The dark corridor around him flooded with light, his shadow springing up on the wall. Behind him, hurried footsteps slowed to a stop. Slowly, robotically, Gordon turned to the side. It was none other than one of the blue clad security guards, his flashlight beaming directly at the intruder. But the light wavered, faltered. 

“What in the _hell_?”

Of course, the gnome. Cradled to Gordon’s chest like a newborn son. It was just the abrupt distraction the trespasser needed. Gordon booked it around the corner, his sneakers flying beneath him.

“Hey! Get back here!”

Running. His bread and butter. Perhaps he should have tried to talk his way out of it? He had to suppress a laugh at that. Gordon couldn’t genuinely recall a time he had ever talked his way out of anything.

He might have outpaced the officer for now, but so far the network of tunnels ran mostly in long, uninterrupted corridors. In an unfamiliar environment, it was better to break line of sight. Outrunning would only keep him hidden for so long, before the guard rounded another corner.

Gordon hiked the gnome under his arm and clambered up the first vertical pipe he saw, wedging himself into the gap between the ceiling and the steam line. As he willed himself to quiet his breathing, he heard the approaching footsteps echo down the concrete corridor. Directly below his hiding spot, Gordon watched between the gap in the pipes as the guard paused to catch his breath, his hands resting on his knees.

“ _Ohmygodhesfast_ ,” he panted.

The man stretched back to full height and unhooked his radio from his belt. Gordon’s eyes widened in horror. He could only imagine how many more of these blue drones would come flooding in at the push of the button. How many hours would he be able to take hiding up in this uncomfortable heat? More importantly, how would he be able to get back to his job on time in the morning?

But the guard paused, the radio held frozen just inches from his face. He then sighed and shook his head, returning it to his belt clip.

“They don’t pay me enough for this shit,” he mumbled, and began his defeated trek back to the test labs.

Gordon expelled the breath he had been holding and gave the gnome a reassuring pat on the back for good measure.

He reached the Sector C offices sooner than expected, though a brief chase was sure to shorten the time. Once he crawled back into the ventilation complex, Gordon searched for the nearest available grate to gauge his location. Shining his light through the slats, he watched as bands of light illuminated a dark and empty office. Plain, undecorated, completely utilitarian. Magnusson’s office, all right. And just next door…

With a light shove he dislodged the next grate over, having substituted the screws with wads of bubblegum the day earlier. He dropped down into Kleiner’s office, replaced the vent’s plate, dusted himself off, and planted his gift squarely on the center of the hardwood desk. Before unrolling his sleeping bag and settling in for the night, he checked his watch. 10:08 PM. He wondered if he could get it down to under an hour.

Several hours later, Dr. Issac Kleiner began his commute to the Sector C offices— on time as always. Gordon, of course, had earlier slipped out of Kleiner’s office in time to return to his locker, punch the clock, and nibble on some microwave oatmeal. As soon as he saw the old scientist pass by the breakroom, he scrambled his leftovers into the garbage bin and jogged up to meet him.

“Ah, good morning, Gordon,” Kleiner greeted. “I hope this day finds you well.”

“Same to you,” Gordon said, raising his mug of coffee in a mock toast.

“I thought I’d check my email before we head to the labs today,” Kleiner said as he fumbled with the key. “It will only take a few minutes.”

The door swung open, revealing the completely normal office with the sole exception of a garden gnome standing tall and proud at the center of his desk.

“Happy Birthday,” Gordon declared.

“Gordon! Why, he looks identical to my old one!” Kleiner lifted the gnome up and examined it from all angles. “How did you manage this feat? I know you aren’t much of a lockpicker.”

“Maintenance tunnels,” Gordon replied, “and the occasional vent.”

“You didn’t!” Kleiner exclaimed, half dropping, half setting the ornament back down on his desk. “My goodness, I hope you weren’t spotted.”

Gordon palmed the back of his neck.

Kleiner’s eyes widened, the color in his face draining. “What? Who?!”

“Some guard,” Gordon shrugged. “I left him in the dust. He didn’t bother calling it in anyway.”

“I’d hate to have to bail you out of trouble on your first week of employment, Freeman,” Kleiner chastised, breaking out his best dissapointed college professor voice. 

“You won’t have to.” 

“And what makes you so sure?”

“Plausible deniability.”

Kleiner chuckled at that, shaking his head as he plopped down in an office chair. Gordon squeezed by, choosing to sit at the head of the desk.

“I love it, I really do,” the old scientist sighed, chin in his hand as he gazed at the gnome standing before him. “But was it really worth the risk?”

“I owed it to you,” Gordon simply said, a wistful smile on his lips.

“I suppose. You did break my old one.”

He did break his old one.

The gnome had entertained the faculty and students of MIT for a whole day before the same group of hackers returned at night to spirit the white-bearded lawn ornament back to their professor’s home. As it turned out, Gordon was better at climbing up than climbing down. His sneakers slipped on the glass dome, and he dropped the precious cargo in order to brace himself. The three students watched in horror as the ceramic figurine rolled down the slope like a runaway tire and arched into a beautiful parabolic curve off the roof of Building 10. They had a moment to exchange blanched glances at each other before a shattering crash echoed across the midnight campus.

“I appreciate the gesture, but you were never in any debt,” Kleiner reassured. “If anything, I’m glad that old chap got to go on an adventure, even if it ended in his demise. I still have some photos of him up there in all his glory on a thumb drive somewhere.”

Kleiner paused, a frown replacing his carefree smile. “That being said…”

Gordon braced himself by taking a gulp coffee.

“I know we all need creative outlets, especially in stressful environments, but this encroaches on illegality.”

Gordon scratched his temple. “I seem to recall your encouragement back at MIT.”

“And this is Black Mesa,” Kleiner retorted, voice thick. “You’re treading on a minefield of corporations and facilities paranoid about trade secrets. A far cry from academia.”

“It was a one time thing.”

Kleiner smiled, shaking his head. “I know what drives you, my boy. It’s the same thing that drives me: pursuit of the unknown. My first observation of a double-slit experiment and I knew there was no turning back. ‘One time thing?’ Oh no, no, no. You’ve glimpsed that mystery, and you’ll chase it no matter the consequences.” 

It was surreal, nostalgic, hearing his admonishment twist into praise. Gordon might have felt alone now more than ever, but in that moment he was back at MIT, attending office hours as Professor Kleiner shuffled through his exam with equal parts intrigue and frustration. He could imagine it so clearly, watching those figments dancing in the swirls of his coffee cup.

“Hey Doc! Top of the mornin’ to ya!” 

Gordon snapped upright in his chair. He recognized that voice. Of _course_ it had to be the guard from last night. He chanced a cautious peek up from his coffee. A black-haired security officer stood in the doorway of Kleiner’s office, waving a handful of papers.

“I thought I’d drop off some updates on the announcement system for ya before I head out.”

“Ah, good morning Barney!” Kleiner greeted. “Thank you, I’ll be sure to make copies for the rest of the office.”

Kleiner stood up from his chair to receive the papers, oblivious of Gordon’s attempt at appearing inconspicuous as possible as he slunk down in his seat with his face in his mug. As Kleiner rifled through the memo, the guard named Barney seemed to finally take notice of the shrinking man in the swivel chair. Recognition sparked in his eyes. 

“ _You_ …” 

The scientist in question pointed at himself as nonchalantly as he could muster, a brow raised.

“Yes _you_ ,” Barney growled, stepping into the office and pointing an accusatory finger at his suspect. “Dr. Kleiner, this guy was out sneaking—”

The guard froze, noticing the garden gnome sitting on the desk.

“—with... that... thing,” he mumbled, his pointer finger wavering. “Is there something going on that I don’t know about?”

“Well yes, it’s actually my birthday!” Kleiner exclaimed. “And Dr. Freeman thought of an excellent surprise gift.”

The senior scientist patted the gnome happily.

“Surprise?” Barney babbled, turning to Gordon. “You’re telling me that the reason you were out in the maintenance tunnels was so you could break into an office to leave a _gift_?”

Gordon shrugged.

Barney let out a long, exasperated sigh. “If you wanted it to be a surprise you could have just wrapped it!”

“Now, Barney,” Kleiner intervened. “You’re among ex-faculty and alumni of MIT. Roof-and-tunnel hacking is a time honored tradition of ours!”

The guard shot him an incredulous look. “You mean trespassing?”

“Aha, but trespassers don’t have a code of ethics!”

“OK, well, thanks for enlightening me on your weirdo alma mater, Doc, but you—“ Barney swiveled that finger back to his rival. “New guy. Freeman. If I catch you snooping around where you’re not supposed to again, then I’ll have no choice but to file a report.”

“Oh, don’t worry…” Gordon spoke quietly, evenly. “You won’t catch me again.”

Barney placed his hands on the office desk, leaning forwards with a wry grin on his face. “Sorry, was that a confirmation of desisting... or a challenge?”

Gordon returned the smile, remaining silent as he took another sip from his mug. The guard's eyes narrowed, but with the garden gnome between the two men it was hard to take or make any threat seriously.

Barney exhaled through his nose as he straightened up. He strode to the door, only a bit in defeat. “Fine. Be that way. I gotta clock out anyways.”

Kleiner gave him a small wave. “Thank you for the memo, Barney. And, of course, your utmost patience.”

“Uh huh,” Barney mumbled, glaring at Gordon. He stepped one foot out the door, but doubled back a moment later. “Oh, and happy birthday, Doc. Next time you’re at the bar, it’s on me.”

“That should be later tonight, then.”

“Alright. See ya then, sir.”

The pair of scientists waited for his footfalls to peeter out in the distance before turning to each other.

“And perhaps _you_ should pay for him tonight,” Kleiner ventured, “considering he let you off with a warning.”

“I already paid back a debt today,” Gordon said as he tapped the pointed cap of the gnome with his finger.

Kleiner let out a sigh, shaking his head at his former pupil. “I’d like to think your urban spelunking skills will get you _out_ of trouble some day, Freeman, rather than _into_ it.”

“That’ll be the day,” Gordon muttered into his mug.

The very next week, Barney Calhoun shuffled blearily into his workstation. He yawned, reached blindly to grab a pen from his ceramic pencil holder, and only grasped air. He paused in confusion, fist frozen before him, and looked about his desk to find that all his nicknacks and office supplies had been completely and purposefully rearranged in the middle of the night. Plausible deniability.

**Author's Note:**

> This was written for Lambda Core: A Half-Life Charity Zine. This was my first time contributing to a zine, and it was a wonderful experience! Special thanks to monilariart on tumblr for illustrating my work in the zine! The collection period is over, but the full PDF version is now available for free if you missed it.  
> (Also IHTFP is the unofficial motto for MIT. It means "I Hate This Fucking Place.")


End file.
